


we'll make up our story as we go along

by tripleleaf



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Gen, Help, Kid Fic, how come no one has written this, i don't know how to fanfic, the summary sucks I know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-08-04 19:39:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16352963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripleleaf/pseuds/tripleleaf
Summary: In which Peter, Mike and Micky welcome a new student from England.





	1. Test Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fic for The Monkees, on AO3 too, for that matter, so I'm not very good at this yet. Please excuse any grammar/spelling mistakes, I'm not a native English speaker (God I wish I was). There are going to be multiple chapters, but I don't know what's going to happen yet, just literally making this up as I go along. Have fun reading!

“Hey, Mike. Look at my new airplane model. Wanna join me for the test flight after school?” Micky tugged on Mike’s shirtsleeve to get his attention. Mike was too busy looking out the window to pay him any mind; he had just seen Ms. Milly walking across the schoolyard with a strange boy in tow. 

“Mike, Mike! If you don’t come I’ll be sorry! You wouldn’t want to miss an event of such historical significance for the world,” Micky tried. “Mike? Mike?”

Failing to get Mike to even look at him, Micky turned to Peter instead. “Hey, Peter. Wanna be a witness at one of the most successful test flights in history?”

“Sure, Mick,” Peter looked up from his book, Catcher In The Rye by J. D. Salinger. “Your model looks lovely.”

Loveliness wasn’t an important quality for a plane prototype, but Micky was thankful for Peter’s support. He turned to Mike again, “Look, Mike, you’re being a rather bad friend right now.”

Mike shushed him and finally turned around. “Guys, guys,” he said in an official tone, one he had adopted since he was appointed the leader of the class. “I think we’re getting a new student.”

“A what?” Micky leaped onto Mike’s desk to have a better view of the schoolyard. “Who? How do you know? Is it a girl?”

“A boy. I just saw him with Ms. Milly.”

“It could be her son,” Peter shrugged. “Or a student from another class.”

“If it’s a student at our school I would’ve recognized him,” Mike crossed his arms proudly. “Just wait and see. She’ll bring him in soon.”

“What if it’s not a new student?” Micky challenged. “Are you sure enough to bet on it?”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Fine. If it’s not a new student, I’ll go to your test flight myself. If it is, you have to get him to go to your test flight.”

Peter laughed at Micky’s reaction to the terms of the bet. “Don’t worry, you’ll have an audience anyway. Now sit down.”

Micky sullenly settled into his seat next to Peter as the bell rang. A few moments later, Mrs. Hartley walked in, a small boy holding her hand. Mike smirked triumphantly and elbowed Micky, mouthing, “I win.”

“Hello, class. We’ll have a new student joining us today,” Ms. Milly announced. She smiled at the boy. “Would you like to introduce yourself to your new friends?”

“Hi, fellas. My name is David Jones, but all my sisters call me Davy, so you can call me Davy too, if you’d like.” At the sound of his voice, the entire class fixed their attention on him. Peter at last stopped reading the book he was half-hiding beneath the desk, and even Micky failed to keep on sulking.

He had a very strange accent. His voice was low and clear, and unmistakably British. He was dressed in an orange shirt and shorts, with a red cap on his head. The thing was… he was so small. Mike raised an eyebrow, he couldn’t believe that this boy was going to be in the same class as them.

“Isn’t he a bit young to study with us?” Micky whispered, voicing Mike’s very thoughts. “He looks about eight!”

“Maybe he’s some sort of prodigy,” Peter guessed, obviously fascinated. When he was reading a book, it’s hard to get him to pay attention to anything. “He’s adorable though, isn’t he?”

Mike cast Peter a sidelong glance, but he had to agree. Davy had very neat brown hair and thick eyebrows, and big, bright brown eyes. Oblivious to the conversation going on about him at the back of the class, he took his seat on the front row as Ms. Milly had pointed out, sandwiched between two girls, Daisy and Clara. They both gave him overly friendly smiles and seemed very pleased to welcome this new student into the class. Davy grinned back at them and spoke in his thick British accent, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Now, class, let’s begin our lesson. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know Davy later. Turn to page 26 of your math textbook, please,” said Ms. Milly. 

The class did as instructed, except for Peter, who was once again engrossed in his book. He could afford not to listen to the teacher in maths class because his father was a professor of economics and he was the smartest student in the class. Mike simply liked maths, and as the leader, he felt that he had an obligation to be a good student. Micky had a terribly short attention span, but maths was very handy for calculating technical specs of the projects he built so he tried his best to do the exercises, only to lose focus and start fidgeting with his airplane model five minutes later. Davy wasn’t paying much attention to the lesson either, he was more transfixed by Ms. Milly’s blonde hair and blue eyes.

As the lesson came to an end, Mike tossed at Micky. “Hey! Go say hi to him, and ask him to go to your test flight.”

Micky groaned in defeat. “I don’t want to. Guys, guys, I… I’m quite shy, you know.” He looked truly panicked. It’s true that Micky was the most flashy and annoying guy ever, but that was only when he felt safe enough to relax around his friends.

Knowing this, Peter clapped him on the back reassuringly. “It’s okay. Why don’t we all go say hi to him? I mean, we’re all classmates now, right?”

Mike closed his math textbook shut and the three of them approached the front row, where Davy was (already) surrounded by a dozen girls. “I came from Britain, you see, a small town in Manchester, so that’s why I have this accent. I was worried that no one would understand me, and laugh at me, because I sound so different.” He lowered his voice and batted his eyelashes endearingly. “Don’t you think I sound real funny?”

“Oh no, Davy, you sound so good!” said Clara admiringly. “I’ve never heard a voice quite like yours before.”

“Yeah, right,” Mike rolled his eyes and stepped closer into the circle before she could unleash any more praises. “Hi Davy, I’m Robert Michael Nesmith. You can call me Mike. I’m the leader of the class, good to meet you.” 

“Ooh! Lovely to meet you, Mike.” They shook hands.

“Here’s Peter Halsten Thorkelson, yes, fancy name indeed. We call him Peter.” Peter flashed a dimpled grin and waved from behind Mike.

“And here’s George Michael Dolenz Jr., who goes by Micky. With no e, please.” Micky put on an enduring smile, more to project his loathing at Mike than to greet Davy. “Look, Davy. There’s something Micky here wants to ask you.” 

Seeing that there was no escape, Micky sighed and crossed his fingers behind his back. “Uh. Yeah. Well. I built an airplane and I want to test it later, after school. Would you… come along with us?”

“You want me to come with you?” Davy raised his bushy eyebrows, surprised. He indeed had very big and sparkly eyes, Peter couldn’t help but notice. “Can I see your airplane? Do you have it here?”

Micky went to his desk to fetch his model, not counting on Davy to take much interest in it at all. “Here it is. I’m still working on it, the wings need to be fixed, but I think it’s good enough for a test flight. What do you think?”

“I think it looks great!” said Davy, taking the airplane from Micky and running his fingers along the woodwork of the body. “You have to show me how you built this. Oh, fellas, I’d love to come to the test flight! It’s an honor.”

Mike could’ve sworn Micky was blushing as Davy handed the plane back to him. “Well, thank you. We’ll head to the flying grounds right after class, okay? We’ll wait for you outside the classroom.”

Peter noticed the girls were giving them angry looks for holding Davy up for so long, so he gestured for Mike and Micky to go back to their seats. Daisy and Clara quickly picked up the conversation they were having with Davy about his hometown in Manchester, giggling at everything he said.

Mike leaned back on his chair and propped his feet up on the windowsill. “You know, he’s a real groovy kid. Not bad at all.”

Micky agreed, “Yeah, he seems nice. We have to ask him how old he really is though.”

Peter looked up from his book to study Davy for a moment. “Don’t do that, Mick.”

 

Five minutes before the bell rang, the boys had already finished packing up their bags. Davy kept glancing at the clock and occasionally stole a look at the back of the class. Mike caught his eye once and gave him a knowing wink. Davy had happily winked back.

“Oh I’m so excited,” Davy said as he joined the trio. “Where’s the site for your test flight, Micky?”

“There’s a ranch not far from here, just a five minutes walk. Let’s go.” In one quick move, he was already out in the yard and began skipping ahead of the other three, swinging his bag with one arm and airplane with the other (though comparably gentler as he didn’t want to break it).

“Is it okay if you came home late? Will your parents be worried?” asked Mike once they had stepped out into the scorching midday sun. 

“My dad doesn’t mind. He wants me to make friends.”

“What about your mom?”

Davy bit his lip and hesitated for a moment. “Well… I suppose she wouldn’t mind, either.”

“Oh, okay. Hey Peter, watch out for the snakes.” Mike’s casual remark caused Peter to jump mid-track, nearly dropping his book. Mike knew he had a phobia of snakes and all kinds of insects imaginable.

Peter regained his composure after a second, slightly dazed but surprisingly collected for someone who just realized that they’d been fooled. “I don’t see any snakes, Mike.”

“Well, with that little book that you read while you walk, you ain’t gonna see nothing.” Mike was always looking out for the others, but you wouldn’t believe it if you saw the way he acted.

“What book is that?” asked Davy, squinting to read the title printed on the spine.

Peter noticed that Davy pronounced the word “that” without the ending sound. Interesting. He made a mental note to ask his father, who used to live and work in London for a few years, all about British dialects. “It’s Catcher In The Rye. Have you read it?”

“Never heard of it, even.”

“Oh, that’s understandable. It’s written by an American author, J. D. Salinger. I’d tell you about it, but then when you read it yourself it won’t be as enjoyable. You know, the thrill of discovering a story for the first time is really something, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Thanks, Peter.”

“Peter here goes through like ten books a week. Couldn’t have been faster if he ate them for breakfast,” Mike remarked quietly to Davy; he had to bend himself almost ninety degrees to level his mouth with Davy’s ear. That reminded him of Micky’s inquiry from earlier, but even though he was curious as heck, he’d rather wait for Micky to ask Davy himself.

As if on cue, Micky turned around and called to them, “Hey! Walk faster! Take quick, proud strides, folks, for you are about to become a part of--” The rest was unintelligible.

“I can only walk so fast,” Davy admitted. “Couldn’t take larger strides if I tried.”

It physically pained Mike to hold in a laugh, while Peter closed his book and quietly tried to match his pace with Davy’s, so Davy wouldn’t lag behind so much.

Soon they had arrived at the ranch. Davy took one look around, his eyes wide with horror, “What’s wrong with the grass?”

It was a perfectly normal ranch to Mike. “What do you mean what’s wrong?” 

“The grass! It’s all yellow and dead. Oh this looks terrible,” Davy exclaimed. “In Britain there are large, sad moors, but the grass is always green and alive, at least.”

Micky laughed and clapped Davy on the shoulder. “It’s just good ol’ California weather. Welcome to America, Davy. Now, I will launch this bad boy from atop that big ol’ tree.” He quickly climbed the tree and perched himself on one of the bigger branches. “Now, ladies and gentlemen--”

“There aren’t any ladies here,” Peter pointed out.

“Fine. Gentlemen!” Micky once again slipped into a TV presenter-like persona. “History is about to be made.”

He waited for a rare gust of wind to propel the airplane and at the right time, let it go. It glided smoothly for at least thirty feet (which is around ten meters to Davy, who was used to measuring distance like normal people). This earned a sparse round of applause from his small audience. 

Davy ran to pick up the plane and climbed up the tree to hand it to Micky. “That was fantastic! Can you do it again?”

“Sure, Davy.” Micky positioned the plane for another launch. He was glad that Davy found him interesting, and it made him feel much more comfortable. The plane glided away again, but this time due to an unexpectedly strong gust of wind shot right across the ranch, heading in the direction of a farmhouse which belonged to Mr. Babbitt, one of the most disagreeable people towards children to have ever existed.

At the sight of shattering glass, four voices exclaimed in unison, “Oh no.”


	2. Awkward Landing

During his first few days at his new school, Davy Jones didn’t get much studying done at all. His mind was always preoccupied with trying to memorize people’s names and faces. Daisy: always wears dresses, long blonde hair, very high-pitched voice. Mary: brown hair, freckles, long eyelashes. April: doll-like nose, earrings. The list went on.

Out of the whole class he wanted to befriend the three long-haired boys at the bottom row the most. They seemed like a very funny and smart group to be with. There was Mike, who was as tall as any adult - Davy had never seen a kid his age that tall. He wondered if Mike was actually older than the rest of them, but he figured it would be rather rude to ask Mike about it. Mike, for some reason, always wore a green wool hat and would unconsciously reach out to pat it from time to time. He had an accent very thick and drawly that made Davy think of the consistency of rice pudding. Davy would have to ask him about his accent some time.

Micky was also very tall, almost as tall as Mike, but looking at the way he acted there’s no doubt that he was still a child. He was capable of making the funniest faces; sometimes when Davy turned around to look at them he saw Micky acting out something to the other two and it always made him burst out in silent laughter. Micky’s accent was a real challenge for Davy’s ears though. He spoke very fast and his words were all stitched together, and more often than not he would use all kinds of different voices for effect.

And last but not least was blond-haired Peter. Peter was rather quiet and withdrawn compared to his mates, mostly because he was always caught up in reading some book. He seemed the nicest and friendliest of all, especially when he smiled and his dimples showed. Luckily Peter had a nice and clear accent, he didn’t speak too fast nor mingle the syllables. Davy found it interesting that each one of them had a different accent - were there that many variations within the state of California? Or did they all originally come from different places and ended up moving here as Davy did?

Davy had all these questions, and he would love to get to know these boys better and be good friends with them. But it proved to be a difficult task since none of them would talk to Davy, or return his smiles, or even made direct eye contact with him now. Not since the first day, after the plane accident had got them into trouble.

 

Mr. Babbitt was a small, angry man with a very funny-looking nose. He had come stomping out of his house mere seconds after the plane crashed through his window, his face all red and distorted. “You again!” he spat at the boys. “Juvenile delinquent! This kind of behavior cannot be tolerated. I will report you to the teacher, and your poor parents will have to pay for that window to be fixed!”

“Okay, my parents will take care of that,” said Micky. “I’m really sorry.”

“It was an accident, though,” Peter reasoned. “It’s not like we did it on purpose. You can be mad about it, but you can’t insult us like that.”

Mike put his hands on his hips and stood to his full height to face Mr. Babbitt. “Yeah! Juvenile delinquents? We were just flying a toy airplane!”

Throughout this exchange Davy had remained quiet, trying to hide behind Micky’s tall frame. He didn’t know who this grumpy man was, but he had a clear feeling they were in trouble. It was a bit too soon to be getting into trouble, he thought, wishing he hadn’t agreed to come along.

Unable to counter Mike and Peter’s points, Mr. Babbitt turned his attention to someone else. “Hey, who is this?” he asked, pointing at Davy. “I’ve never seen you around before. Who are you, kid? Why are you hanging around with this group?”

Luckily Mike answered so Davy didn’t have to. “He just moved here from England.”

“England, huh? Well, well. Already mixed up with the bad kids, I see. Kid, your parents must be proud to see their son out and about with the worst seeds America has to offer!” He roared in laughter. “Your mother will be in tears!”

“Hey, don’t-” Davy said weakly, and quite unexpectedly, broke into tears himself. He was nervous about being reported to the teacher on his very first day to school, and he just hated all that talk about parents. He hadn’t cried in a while, his tears held off by the excitement of moving and the brightness of California, but now, once he had started crying it was impossible to stop.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Mike yelled at Mr. Babbitt. “Please go talk to our teacher if you’d like, but leave us alone!”

Meanwhile, Peter had already rushed to Davy’s side and pulled him into a tight hug. “It’s okay, Davy, we’re not gonna laugh at you,” he whispered consolingly. “Mr. Babbitt is just an ugly, bitter, stingy old man who doesn’t have a wife or kids. Maybe that’s why he’s so disagreeable. But that’s no excuse to treat anyone so poorly, no.” Peter was much taller than Davy, so instead of crying on Peter’s shoulder, he ended up burying his face in the front of Peter’s shirt, which smelled like fresh laundry and vanilla. Peter didn’t seem to mind the wet shirt one bit, he gently rubbed circles on Davy’s back as Davy sobbed.

Mike and Micky silent watched, not exactly judging, just confused. What Mr. Babbitt said was a bit harsh, though hardly hurtful enough to send the boy into tears within seconds like that. Mike cleared his throat, “Hey Davy. Don’t worry about that, really. We’ll make sure to explain that it’s not your fault, so you won’t get into any kind of trouble at all. We’ll ask the teacher not to tell your parents too if that’s what you’re scared about.”

“No, it’s- it’s not that,” Davy managed before another sobbing fit took over him. He was grateful that Peter was providing him with some hiding space instead of having to stand there on his own, helpless in his own tears. When Davy finally calmed down, they all offered to walk him home but he declined, saying he wanted to be alone for a while. Peter gave him one more hug, which he barely registered, and Mike showed him the direction back to the school.

Davy had just walked a few paces when Micky caught up with him. He looked so crestfallen with his plane held limply in one hand. “Hey Davy,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”

“The plane did work, though, Micky. You should be proud.” Davy sniffed. Micky didn’t seem cheered up much as he turned to walk the other way.

 

Now that Davy thought about the whole accident, he could sort of see why they were all so awkward towards him. He really was being unusually emotional that day, but it was impossible to explain it without having to tell them the whole story, about the real reason why they had left England for America. That wasn’t about to stop him, though. There was no one in this world Davy Jones couldn’t befriend, once he had set his heart upon them, that’s what his mum used to say.

“Hey, fellas,” he approached their desk two days later during recess. “Do you have any plans today? Going anywhere after school?”

“Plans like flying an airplane? No, nothing of the sort,” replied Micky gloomily, absently toying with his eraser. Davy noticed he hadn't brought his airplane to school since, even though it was relatively unscathed after the crash.

“Mr. Babbitt, uh, did report us to the teacher, who called us in for a talk. And Micky’s parents, too,” Mike explained. “But we’ve been in worse trouble before.”

Peter looked at Davy. “How are you?"

“What? Oh yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Davy blinked in surprise. He had already got over the accident by the time he got home and went on to excitedly tell his father about the new friends he had met. He just hadn't properly thanked Peter for having been so nice to him during his emotional outburst; it was a difficult subject to broach.

Mike raised an eyebrow. “You’re not mad at us, are you, Davy?”

“What? No!”

“Good, then.” Micky suddenly got up to leave. “I need some air,” he muttered, and the others followed him out to the yard, leaving Davy alone.

 

During history class the next day, Davy came up with a plan to be around Micky, Mike and Peter. That way, they would have to be friends with him, awkward or not. The plan involved being distracted enough in class, which Davy happened to be very good at. In fact, he couldn’t be any more distracted in class than he already was. He simply stopped trying to hide the fact that he was looking at the girls all the time. They dressed different, he noticed, in shorter, more stylish and colorful clothes than his old classmates in Manchester did.

“Davy Jones!” Ms. Milly called him, tapping her ruler on the desk. “What are you looking at? Please pay attention when I’m talking. You won’t be able to keep up with the lesson otherwise.”

“Okay,” he said and turned to give Daisy another smile. It didn’t help that whenever he smiled at the girls, they always smiled back.

“Davy!” Ms. Milly didn’t fail to notice that. “This can’t go on. You’re distracting everyone who sits around you, too! If you keep this up, I’ll have to send you to the back of the class.”

“Alright then, if you must,” Davy sighed morosely, quickly stuffing his books back in his bag and getting up. “I guess I really have to go.”

Mike’s hand shot into the air. “Ms. Milly, wait! Who is Davy going to sit with now?” Of all the desks in the bottom row, his was the only one without a deskmate.

“You, of course, so you can keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t distract anyone.”

“But he won’t be able to see well from here!” Mike raised a point which was painfully true. Ms. Milly seemed to reconsider her decision, but Davy had already settled down next to Mike before she could change her mind.

“If I need to see something I can always stand up,” he said cheerfully and turned to give Mike a grin. “Hi, Mike.”

Mike subconsciously felt his wool hat and gave Davy a defeated look. “Hi, Davy.”

From the desk next to them, Peter waved to Davy. His deskmate Micky looked at Davy just for a second before quickly turning away. “You know, if you wanted to sit with us you could’ve just asked Ms. Milly,” Mike said, jotting down some dates into his notebook.

“You guys would object to it otherwise. Like how you’ve sort of been avoiding me.”

“No, it’s not that. Well yeah, sort of. It’s just awkward. We don’t know how to talk to you. Like we could be friends, yeah, but we got started out on the wrong foot, and Micky hasn’t forgiven himself just yet.”

“Why? I’m not mad at him.”

“Well, no, but he thinks he’s hurt you or something. Because you were crying, you know,” Mike guessed that Micky felt so guilty because he thought of Davy as a fragile little kid. In fact, they all thought of him as a fragile little kid, but Mike wasn’t going to tell Davy that.

“But he will forgive himself, right? And then you’re all okay to be friends with me?” Davy persisted. Mike couldn’t help but roll his eyes because of how hell-bent Davy was on being friends with them. They were, in his opinion, a boring, slightly rebellious and definitely unpopular bunch.

“Yes, Davy. Now, will you stop talking to me and let me take some notes, please? You should be taking notes yourself too, actually.”

“Okay, Mike,” Davy said obediently and started writing in his own notebook, but five seconds later he paused mid-sentence, his pencil poised over the page. “Wait, Mike. How do we start being friends? Like, if we started on the wrong foot, how do we correct that? It’s not like we can meet each other again. You know."

“Well, I dunno,” Mike wiped his face with his free hand. “Look, let’s ask Peter after school. He’s good at this sort of thing. He’ll plan some welcome activity or something for ya.”

“Why can’t we just ask him now? His desk is right next to us!” Davy said impatiently.

“Because, it’s in the middle of a lesson, and we’re supposed to be paying attention, that’s why!” Mike glared at Davy. Though he was used to dealing with Micky’s antics, Davy was beginning to wear him out. He tore a piece of scrap paper and wrote, “Davy wants us to begin again. Can you come up with an activity for that?” He showed it to Davy, who nodded in approval, before tossing it to Peter at the adjacent desk.

Peter opened up the note and his face lit up in delight. He had finished Catcher In The Rye earlier that morning and had forgotten to bring another one to read, so he had been quite bored for a while. Thinking it over for a minute, he nudged Micky, “Hey, can you bring four paper cups tomorrow?”

“Sure. What for?” Micky asked suspiciously, trying to think of potential uses Peter could have for paper cups.

Peter ignored his question and wrote a note back to Mike. “Bring some strings.”


	3. Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much schoolwork to do but wanted a break, so that's how this rushed, barely-revised chapter came to be. If the story starts to bore you, look out for the references peppered throughout. Hope you enjoy it!

Micky walked into class, practically hopping through three row of desks to the desk he shared with Peter at the back. He eyed Peter’s bulging bag on the floor by their feet in astonishment, “How many books did you even bring today? That looks like it’s holding your entire bookshelf! Oh wait, my entire bookshelf. Yours must fill up a whole room.”

“Just this one actually,” Peter held up the book he was reading to show Micky the spine, which said Lord of the Flies by William Golding, and the illustration on the cover depicted a group of kids dressed in rags glaring at each other like they would jump into a fight any second, each with a wooden stick in hand. To be honest, Micky found the books Peter read not exactly suited for children - once, out of curiosity, he had randomly flipped open a book Peter left on their desk, and the passage about medieval torture he read was terrifying enough to give him nightmares.

“My guess is those are for the activities later,” Mike said.

Micky narrowed his eyes. “Wait… what activities?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Mike asked me to plan some activities to get to know Davy, and to start again, you know, after that accident last week,” Peter’s expression suggested that his forgetting to tell Micky was somewhat intentional. “Did you bring the paper cups?”

“I did...” Micky frowned, opening his bag to show the paper cups stacked neatly on top of each other. “But… starting again with Davy? What, is he like, one of us now?”

Mike understood Micky’s wariness. They were the weird kids who didn’t have any other friends than each other, and no one had ever approached their group during the two years they had studied together. He slid across the bench to get closer to Micky, “Well, he seems very nice, remember how excited he was about your plane? He’s new here and he needs friends. If he’s not nice we’ll just kick him out, no big deal. Right, Peter?”

Peter nodded so fervently that his hair fell into his face in a nice waterfall effect. “We’ll… well, we’ll tell his mother, and Ms. Milly, too.”

Micky still looked a bit troubled. “But… he can be friends with anyone he likes. He’s adorable and British and small, even the girls would let him into their group. He doesn’t need to be friends with us.”

“Yeah, I don’t get that either,” Mike admitted. “But he acted distracted on purpose for Ms. Milly to move him down here, he told me that. Just so he could talk to us. I think we could do better to welcome him, at least.”

As if on cue, Davy appeared at the doorway with his hair neatly combed, dressed in an oversized checkered shirt with puffy sleeves that made him look even smaller. “Morning, fellas!” he chirped in his crisp British accent, skipping his way to their desks. “What are you reading, Peter?”

Peter once again held up the cover of his book for Davy to see. “We were just talking about the meeting after school, actually,” he said cheerfully.

Davy shot up and clamped his hand over Peter’s mouth. “Shh, don’t tell me about it now, you have to keep it a surprise! Really, fellas, don’t spoil it!”

 

Peter led the group up the hill to the shade of a big tree, a location he had picked out the night before. The shade provided them with instant relief from the midday heat, and most importantly, it was a place where they would most likely not be found by anyone else. Davy had offered to help him carry his bag, so they were both hauling it up the barren slope. Micky wore a look of his dismay on his face - all morning, no matter how many times he asked, Peter wouldn’t let him know any details per Davy’s ‘request’.

“Why do you keep looking over your shoulder like we’re doing something illegal?” Mike questioned Peter, taking off his wool hat to mop the sweat from his thick bush of hair. “We’re, like, in the middle of nowhere.”

“Ooh, are we about to do something in secret?” Davy looked way more excited than he should be at the prospect of possibly illegal activities.

“No, but the nature of our meeting today requires privacy. And it’s nothing compared to the meetings of secret societies. Can you even guess where they meet?”

“No,” said three voices in confusion.

“That’s exactly what I was going to say,” Peter grinned, setting his backpack down on the grass and surveyed their surroundings one last time, even though they had walked far enough from the school that there were no houses at all within a one-mile radius. “Let’s settle down here and sit in a circle.”

“Now are you going to tell me what these paper cups are for?” Micky demanded.

“Oh no,” a look of realization dawned on Mike’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna establish a secret society and make us join.”

“So the cups…” Micky gasped in fear, his eyes darting back and forth between Peter, Mike, and Davy. “My cousin once told me that before you get initiated into a secret society, you gotta drink your own pee mixed with rainwater, a-and… go through all these terribly painful rituals.”

“You must be joking!” Davy exclaimed.

“I think he’s quite serious,” Mike said gravely, clutching a roll of string in his fist, which was shaking perceptibly. “Peter did tell me to bring this… I’ve heard, one of the standard practices is to tie the new member to a metal post and leave him there for a day. If the ceremony takes place outside, a large tree could be used instead.”

All four of them instinctively looked at the trunk of the tree less than a feet away from where they were sitting. Davy swallowed thickly. Peter scratched his head, “That doesn’t sound anything like the book about secret societies I’ve read, to be honest.”

“Oh, Peter, don’t believe the things you read in books,” Micky waved him off. “Reality is cruel.”

“Hey wait a minute! You guys can’t be serious about doing that to me! I won’t join your society anymore!” Davy stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants. “I thought we were gonna play a game or something!” He accusingly looked at Peter, who seemed just as confused, though not terrified as he was.

“Where are you going, Davy?”

“I’m going home!” Davy said resolutely and reached for his backpack. His eyebrows nearly touched and formed a straight line as he frowned.

Mike and Micky exchanged a worried look. “Davy, will you please sit down? Do you really think we’re gonna tie you up and make you drink your pee?” Mike asked, his panic rising - he hadn’t expected Davy to react so strongly to their little prank. Davy, stone-faced, slung his backpack over his shoulder and stomped his way down the slope of the hill.

“I think he simply thinks we’re evil people,” Micky suggested.

Mike made a face. “Crafty and selfish, maybe, but we’re not evil. Oh boy, what if he goes back and tells Ms. Milly? She’ll be so mad at us.”

“How fast can such a short person walk?” Peter wondered out loud, which prompted an invisible light bulb to light up above Micky’s head. He frantically tugged Mike on the shirtsleeve, “Come on, let’s go after him and explain! Maybe he’ll forgive us!”

Before the three boys could get up, a voice came from behind them, deep and distinctly British, “Don’t bother.” Peter scrambled to his feet and held onto his humongous backpack like it was a shield, while Micky jumped and hung onto Mike like a sloth on a tree branch, accidentally knocking the wool hat off of Mike’s head in the process. They stood in a freeze frame for a few seconds, but there was no other sound or movement in their surroundings except for the humming of insects and the rustling of leaves.

Mike was the first to break the silence. “Now what on earth was that?”

“A ghost, maybe?” Micky whispered, still refusing to get down to the ground.

“That ghost sounds an awful lot like Davy,” Peter remarked.

From behind the tree Davy emerged, in the flesh, with a big grin on his face. “Fooled ya! Micky, you can let go of Mike now.” Sheepishly Micky let go of Mike’s neck and slowly slid down to the grass, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief that Davy was neither a ghost nor crying.

Mike chuckled and fixed his wool hat on his head. “What gave us away?”

“The fact that it’s absolutely ridiculous and Peter looks too innocent to be a brutal ringleader. No offense, Peter,” Davy shrugged, still grinning. Micky gaped in disbelief that Davy had managed to beat them at their own game. They all broke into laughter, the awkward air already dissipating, and sat down on the grass again as if nothing happened. Peter was a bit upset, not because his plans were interrupted, but of the fact that he had failed to catch on quickly enough.

Davy seemed to have picked up on it, “Sorry about that, Peter. Now what have you got planned for us?”

“Yeah, what are the paper cups really for?” asked Micky, who would never let go of a question until he was satisfied with the answer.

“Tea,” Peter said matter-of-factly. He baffled Mike and Micky because they couldn’t tell if he was actually serious or just that good at keeping a straight, innocent face. From his backpack, he produced a vacuum flask and went on to pour each of them a cup of tea. Despite the shortcoming in presentation, the tea smelled lovely. “I think Davy would like it if we have a little tea party. I made it early this morning so it’s not that hot anymore, though.”

“I like it lukewarm,” Davy reassured him, holding the paper cup with both hands and took a sip. “This is really English tea!” His ecstatic expression was so amusing to Mike, who didn’t really believe in the stereotype that all Brits like tea, or stereotypes in general. Mike had never seen a kid his age looking so happy sipping on tea before, and he had to give credits to Peter for having thought of giving them tea and somehow managing to find good English tea in particular for Davy.

Micky tentatively sipped on his tea and cringed at the bland taste and slight bitterness. “You should’ve just made some Kool-Aid, Peter. Isn’t that how they advertise it, ‘Make friends with Kool-Aid’?”  
Davy was surprised how good Micky’s voice was when he sang the jingle. It sounded exactly like the way he had heard it on television at home.

“Oh, my bad,” Peter dug around in his backpack and tossed Micky a packet of sugar and a small plastic spoon to whisk it up. Micky immediately stopped complaining.

“I really didn’t expect America to have good English tea,” Davy admitted.

That earned a laugh from Mike. “Davy, America’s not the end of the world. Like, maybe the grass is not as green, but we do have good tea and a lot of other good stuff.”

“If England’s all that nice, why did you move here anyway?” Micky asked. His question was followed by a pause in which Davy seemed to have found something interesting in the distance because he was staring intently at it, while Mike, Micky, and Peter kept sipping on their tea until there wasn’t any tea left in their cups.

“It’s a sad story, and we’re having fun,” Davy finally replied. His eyes squinted as he looked across the brightly sunlit field. “Maybe another time?”

“That’s entirely up to you. We’ll listen whenever you feel like telling it,” Peter said. Micky and Mike nodded, and Davy suddenly felt like crying again. A part of him was sad, but a larger part of him was strangely happy that he was sitting with these particular three boys right then, under that very tree.

“Another time, then,” he decided.

Sensing that the air had become quite somber, Mike nudged Peter to keep the activities going. “And now, moving on to the next one…” Peter laid down a few boxes on the grass. The boys curiously opened them and saw they were full of beads of varying sizes and colors. “I thought we could make our own love beads today. It’s the trend right now, a lot of young people wear them around their necks as a symbol of peace and love. That’s pretty nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that explains the string,” Mike agreed, though not very enthusiastically. He just wasn’t good at arts and crafts in class, so he thought it was going to be dreadfully boring. And he wouldn’t wear weird beads around his neck even if they gave him five dollars for it, anyway.

It turned out to be more fun than he had expected. Peter didn’t even know how to knot the string, so for the next half hour, Davy took to explaining to him how to make a proper knot to hold the beads in place. It was an exhausting task because Peter would always cross the strings wrong or insert the end through the wrong loop. In the meantime, Mike opened all the boxes and sorted the beads by color and organized the boxes by size, while Micky showed off his crafting skills by making several complicated knots on a spare piece of string. They finally managed to string their beads, though progress was slow because Micky kept mixing the different colors together to undo all of Mike’s hard work and Peter’s knot kept slipping off. By afternoon, Davy was wearing his blue and white beads around his neck happily, Mike and Micky more reluctantly so. Mike had advised Peter not to wear his too often, as they were all made of a rather distasteful orange.

Before their meeting concluded, Peter said they had to go through some procedures. “It’s been a good afternoon and I believe it’s time for Davy to go home and report to his dad about what he did. Before we part ways, we must establish a name for our secret society and welcome new member David Jones, who had come all the way from England to join us. Any objections?”

“Hurry up, I want to go home, man,” Mike said, thinking of his mother at home.

“Alright, alright. We need to come up with a name. Any ideas?”

“Micky, Mike, Peter and Davy?” Davy suggested.

Mike sighed, “We need a name that people can’t tell is ours!”

“We can shorten it to MMPD? That sounds pretty cool,” Micky exclaimed, feeling like a genius. “Sounds like we’re a bunch of undercover spies, disguising as students but in fact we’re on a government mission, with lasers hidden in our pens and timebombs in our watches.” For the next few seconds, he drifted into an action sequence featuring the four of them revealing the hidden weapons from their stationery to defend the school against a heist, as the rest of the students and teachers looked on in awe.

“We need some connection to the members to make it a unique and meaningful name,” Peter said thoughtfully. “I read that it a book about secret societies,” he explained when Mike gave him a questioning look. “Hey, how about our star signs?”

As the school broke into a huge round of applause and they were all awarded medals of honor, Micky came back to the conversation, “Our what?”

“Based on your birthday and month, you get sorted into a corresponding sign. It’s said to predict your personality and fate. Really interesting stuff,” Peter explained to Davy, who also wore a look of incomprehension. “I’ve got a little star chart here. Just take a look at it to see which sign you are.”

“It’s not a science,” objected Mike with his arms crossed. “It’s just generic made-up stuff that would be true to anyone, to fool naive people, Peter. How many star charts and astrology books have you bought? They’re benefiting from it!”

“Really, don’t believe everything you read. But science is not always black and white, there are a lot of things we don’t know, and maybe one day someone will prove the scientific basis for astrology,” Micky said like a true science nerd, scooting over to Davy to read the chart. “I’m a… what’s this? _Pieces_ , whatever that means,” he announced.

“It’s _Pisces_ ,” Mike corrected with a snicker, glancing over at the signs and notations. “I’m a Capricorn, by the way.”

“Hey, me too!” cheered Davy. “I’m December 30th. It was a sad, gloomy day when I was born, I was told. When’s your birthday?”

“That very same day, oddly enough,” Mike blinked. “But I was born the year before so I’m technically a year older than you guys.” He didn’t go into details about why he went to school a year late. He would keep it to himself, just as Davy was reluctant to tell his story.

“I’ve suspected that!” Davy jumped and pointed a finger at Mike, then realizing that he was perhaps too excited, sat down again and shrugged it off. “I mean, it’s just a few days so it’s not that big of a difference, anyway. How about you, Peter?”

“I’m an Aquarius. My birthday’s the day before Valentine,” said Peter with a hint of regret. He had never received anything except for a few threatening Valentines last year.

Micky pieced all of the names together. “Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Capricorn?” he said out loud. “Quite a mouthful.”

“Can’t I be Davy?” Davy protested. “Or Jones? So there won’t be two Capricorns in a row.”

“Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones. I like that, it’s kinda like poetry,” Mike said.

“But we’re in a democratic country, so let’s vote for it,” Peter insisted. “I will be the committee to count the votes. Who’s in for Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones? Please raise your hand.”

He did a quick count. “Okay, good. That makes four out of four. The vote has concluded, and I am pleased to announce that from now on, we’ll be known as Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn and Jones. This tree will be our headquarters. What should we name it?”

“Headquarters, obviously,” said Micky, who actually had a dog named You at home. (“It’s unique, no one would ever think of that,” he would say in defense.)

And with that, the boys headed home, having been inducted into their own secret society, had tea, made love beads and almost been scared by a ghost.

 

 

 


	4. Gonna Buy Me A Dog?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long overdue chapter inspired by and based on The Monkees episode 1x12, I've Got A Little Song Here. Enjoy! :)

Micky, Davy, Mike and Peter were huddled around the desk, engrossed in a double game of tic-tac-toe when Jake, a kid from another class, dropped by. “Magazine delivery!” he called.

Aside from comics, magazines were a great source of entertainment and educational material for the kids--Peter and Mike found a lot of fun in critiquing the writing and grammar of the articles written by adults trying to sound like kids. At school, if you subscribed to this children’s magazine called 12! you got a small discount on the price and had the latest issue delivered right to your class every week. For reasons he wouldn’t disclose, Mike was an avid reader of 12!, and he immediately paused the game he was playing against Peter to get his magazine. “I prefer the National Geographic,” Micky said. “And Nature, but that one I don’t understand much.” 

Mike returned with his nose buried in the pages of the magazine. “Congratulations, because of your abilities and imagination, you have been selected for this exclusive offer!” he read aloud. “Enter before the 12th of this month!” 

“That for you, Mike?” asked Peter. 

“Well, yeah. It says, ‘Dear Reader. Send us your poems and stand a chance to be featured in our annual special issue, get recognition for your unique talent with words, and win large prizes of cash! High Class Publishing House.’ Hmm, this sounds like a bad idea,” he frowned. “You know, those competitions that trick you into joining without giving out real prizes?” 

“But we’re not joining, so who cares? Let’s get back to the game, come on,” Davy nudged him. He tucked away the magazine into his bag and resumed the game, but seemed to have his mind already on something else because he went on to lose five games in a row.

  


The following Friday, Davy noticed Mike wasn’t his usual composed self. He was nervous and jumpy, and kept glancing out the window every five minutes. He wasn’t taking any notes nor listening, and simply sat there staring blankly at the wall when Micky and Peter played off in the finals of the tic-tac-toe tournament. When Jake came by with the magazines, he practically jumped over the rows of desks to get to the door. “12! Magazine… with a special announcement about some competition inside,” Jake told him.

“I know,” Mike said and snatched his own copy, quickly leafing through it as he returned to his desk. Finally his face lit up like it was Christmas morning and he let out a freakishly high-pitched squeal in all his excitement.

“It’s probably Joannie Jans,” Micky speculated. “Maybe she’s finally spoken up about the rumors of her dating her co-star. Or decided to do another movie, out in the summer.”

“What? Who?” Davy asked, confused.

“Oh, Joannie Jans is one of Hollywood’s most famous actresses. Mike’s got quite a crush on her, got a photo of her on his bedroom wall or something. Why else do you think he subscribes to 12!?” Micky explained. “Don’t tease him about it, though, it’s supposed to be a secret,” Peter warned him.

Still curious, Davy wandered over and read the magazine over Mike’s shoulder. “Wait, this isn’t about Joannie Jans. Poetry Competition Winners Shortlist,” he gasped at the title. “Huh, you wrote a poem, Mike?”

“Well, you know,” Mike gave a noncommittal grunt. “Yeah, kinda.” 

“Hey, Mike’s a poet!” Peter pulled Mike into a hug. “How come you never told us? Or let us read your poetry?”

“Well, as Miss Milly would say,” Micky took on a pretentious introspective tone, “there is poetry in everything, even in sketchy competitions announced in a magazine.” They all started to laugh at the idea of Mike, who was initially so opposed to the idea of sending in a poem, ending up doing the exact same thing.

“Okay, you guys go ahead and laugh,” Mike crossed his arms sulkily and turned to face the wall. “Poetry is a million dollar art form, you’ll see.”

“Hey, Mike, we didn’t mean to make fun of you,” Davy apologized, horrified at the possibility of Mike not talking to him anymore. “What’s your poem called? Can we read it?” he asked, fussing to make up for insensitiveness. 

“Gonna Buy Me A Dog,” came a mumble from the wall.

“What? You are? What kind of dog?” Micky asked. When they realized that it was actually the title of the poem, they once again went into hysterics and Mike wouldn’t talk to any of them for the rest of the day.

  


But of course the boys didn’t mean to laugh at Mike. They really wanted him to succeed and win a big prize and get published in a magazine. “If your poem gets printed I’ll buy ten copies and show everyone I know,” Peter announced in earnest. 

“Fine, then. I’ll let you guys read it,” Mike finally allowed. He knew that he couldn’t really expect them to understand if he was keeping everything from them. After reading his poem, they all decided that it was a ‘lively, interesting, funny, charming, divine little poem’, and he made peace with them and they were all laughing together again. It was a relief – Mike didn’t want to be without his friends, and he was even more terrified that they would find his attempt at poetry a joke. 

“So, you’re shortlisted. What’s next?” Davy asked.

“Oh yeah. I haven’t really thought about that.” Mike consulted his magazine. “Okay, this time I have to mail it directly to High Class Publishing House instead of to the 12! office. And submit an entrance fee of… twenty-five dollars?” He made a face. “I don’t have twenty-five dollars.”

“You can always make them,” Peter said helpfully.

“No thanks,” Mike waved him off. “This is looking more and more like a scam. I’m not submitting my poem anymore, that’s it.” He stuffed his magazine back into his bag. “Now, have you guys done your math homework? Davy? If Miss Milly catches you again she’ll be really mad.”

 

 

Therefore, the following week, there was sufficient cause for Micky, Davy and Peter to be surprised as they witnessed Mike first slamming his fist on the desk and then proceeding to toss the latest issue of 12! into the bin.

“Anything interesting this week?” approached Micky cautiously.

Mike didn’t say anything and sat there in silence until the end of the lesson, when he quickly stormed off without saying goodbye. 

Peter watched as he quickly disappeared through the gates. “I wonder what’s gotten into him.” 

“Yeah, try sitting next to him for two hours! He’s, like, actually heating up with anger,” Davy shuddered at the memory. It was only the three of them in class now that all of their classmates had left. 

“Guys, I think I know why,” Micky said, scanning the pages of the crumpled magazine he had just picked out from the trash can. “The winners of the poetry competition are announced this week, and Mike...” 

“...somehow managed to make twenty-five dollars, submitted the poem anyway, and didn’t win?” Davy appeared thoughtful. “Hmm, why did I see this coming? Oh, of course, because Mike is apparently very gullible and this competition with its rules and conditions is shady as hell.” 

“You can’t say ‘hell’ in class,” Peter shushed him, at the same time Micky said, “It’s not that he didn’t win.”

Both Davy and Peter turned around. “What? So he did win?”

“Eh, not really, either. He got an honorary mention for his submission and they’re going to publish it, but they couldn’t award him the prize or list him as the author because he’s underage. Cash prizes and authorship are awarded to adults only. Well, what did they expect? The competition is hosted by a magazine for children and teens!”

“But if they’re printing it and selling it, they have to give him money for it!” Peter argued. “Unless…”

Micky nodded in comprehension. “Unless they’re stealing people’s poetry through this competition thing and claiming it as their own. Man, I tell you, Mike’s been had.” 

“Let’s call this competition thing and get the goods on them,” Davy said, his eyebrows knitting together to form a straight determined line.

  


The line was busy when they dialed the number the first time. “Do you think this might be a fake number?” Micky set down the receiver, frowning.

“Or he’s probably just in the middle of a call. I suppose a lot of kids would want to talk to him about their poetry,” Davy said wryly. “Let’s try again in a few minutes.” 

“Micky! Who’s that you’re calling?” asked Mrs. Dolenz from the kitchen. 

“We’re calling for justice, Mom,” he shouted back.

“Well, the line’s going to be busy for a long time. Good luck, boys.”

  


At that moment, in his house, Mike nervously twisted the telephone cord as he waited for the other end to pick up. “H-hello?”

“12! Magazine, how may we help you?”

“Hi. So, uh, recently I entered my poem in High Class Publishing House’s poetry contest, like it was advertised on your magazine, and now in the latest issue it’s announced that I’m not going to get any prizes for my submission, but it's still going to be printed, uncredited. Isn’t that a bit unfair for me?”

“Well… what’s your name, little boy?”

“Mike Nesmith.”

“Well, Mick Nesbit, sorry to break it to ya, but we don’t take any responsibility for the ads printed in our mag. If you’ve submitted the poem to High Ground or whatever, you’re subject to the terms and conditions, which are available for reference at their office. ” 

“But they didn’t mention any extra terms and conditions in the ad! They should’ve made all the information clear.”

There was a long, unsympathetic sigh. “We don’t have that much paper for printing boring words nobody reads, you know. Unless you want to pay more for each issue? Listen, kid, I repeat, we don’t take responsibility if you fall into any of their traps.” 

“But… but… I gave them my money! I even had to sell my acoustic guitar for it…” 

“Well, call their office and complain directly to them, will you? My final advice to you is to get that guitar back and write a few bad songs, and never to touch poetry again. Good day to you, Miles.”

  


By the time they arrived at Mike’s house, he had already barricaded himself in his bedroom and refused to either talk or open the door. It was a dire situation – they were ready to kickstart their hastily formed plan, but everything had to wait until they got Mike back up on his feet. “At least he found out the truth for himself. Would’ve been worse if he had to hear it from us,” Peter remarked.

“It’s still crummy news,” Davy said, then raised his voice for Mike to hear, “Wanna go out to the tree and play cards?”

“No,” came a muffled reply. 

Micky poked his head in. “Tic-tac-toe then?”

“No.”

“Go to the movies?” prompted Peter.

Here Mike faltered. “No--eh, what’s playing?”

“With A Song In My Heart, starring Joannie Jans.” 

A leaflet came flying through the small crack of the door and nearly hit Davy’s head—upon closer inspection it turned out to be the leaflet for the aforementioned movie. “She’s actually dating her co-star in that movie, and I’ve seen it twice.” 

Micky shook his head, as if to say it was hopeless. 

“What do you want to do, then? You can’t stay in there forever,” Davy sighed and entered the room. Mike was lying in bed staring at the ceiling with his shoes still on. As Davy gingerly placed himself on the edge of the bed, he scooted over just a tiny bit to allow for more space, but didn’t seem disposed to talk.

“Mike?”

“You guys go ahead. I’ll just sorta sit around the house and fail,” he said slowly. He looked so crestfallen it broke Davy’s heart. 

“No, you didn’t fail, he tricked you! You were listed as one of the winners in the magazine. Your poetry is good and they had to admit as much. Why else would they steal it and try to publish it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. What good is their recognition to me? I still get nothing.”

Davy couldn’t argue with that, but at that moment Micky, having closely followed the exchange, came to his aid. “Hey Mike. Wanna see my impression of the inimitable James Cagney?”

“No,” he said bluntly. 

“Oh.” Micky went ahead with the impression anyway. Davy laughed, but no reaction could be extracted from Mike. He tried again, “How about my impression of Fred Astaire doing his impression of the inimitable James Cagney?”

“You do know what inimitable means, right?”

Micky shrugged—the fact that he didn’t was of little consequence to his performance. Again only Davy laughed, not because it was funny but rather because it was exactly the same as the first one. Mike interrupted before Micky offered a third impression, “Really, Mick, I’m not in the mood. I’d rather just skip it.”

Micky flopped onto the bed in defeat as Peter entered. “Hey, Mike,” he said brightly. 

“Hey, Peter.” 

“Mike?”

“Yes, Peter?” Mike replied with strained patience.

“Mike, my mother says you have the best posture of anyone she knows.”

“I don’t think we’ve even met, but thank you, good buddy.” The cynical edge seemed to have worn off of him, and he finally stopped fiddling with his nails to face his friends. “Guys, I don’t know what to do. I even sold my acoustic guitar.”

“What? Is that how you made twenty-five dollars?”

“Yeah. I need at least thirty to get it back.”

“Well, Mike, we’ve talked, and we decided that we won’t let you take this lying down,” Peter announced, and Mike rolled his eyes and propped himself up. “Okay. That’s much better.”

“Now for the figurative sense of the expression. I’ve got a plan,” Micky said, “but it’s going to involve possibly illegal activity including, but not limited to, impersonation, lying, and facilitating invalid transactions of money.” 

Mike narrowed his eyes in consideration. “Fine, I’m in.”

  


Once again they crowded around the telephone with Micky as their mouthpiece while Mike held up the receiver, on the speaking end of which was a piece of balled up newspaper to make Micky's soft prepubescent voice sound deeper and gruffer, a trick he’d learned from his dad. Davy was responsible for sound effects with Peter—they had to type furiously on a typewriter while keeping up a conversation in the background to simulate the environment of a busy office.

“High Class Publishing,” said a disinterested female voice.

“Good afternoon,” Micky said pleasantly. “I’d like to speak to your boss. Immediately.”

“My boss—you mean Mr. Bernie Class? Now, who are you to—” 

“Who am I? You don’t know who I am? Honey, every informed and cultured citizen of California knows who I am! You’re actually asking who I am? Me?”

The secretary was evidently taken aback by this outburst. “Yes… sir?” She had never received a call from someone so hatefully arrogant, and she was only too wary of upsetting any big names. “Please, excuse me, sir, I’ve been too busy working in the office… might be quite out of the loop… we’re preparing for a publication, dealing with all these children—“

“Children, you say? What business do children have, writing for you?” 

“We organized a competition to recruit the poetry of these young talents for publication—“ 

“And claim credit for their work, and not give them anything in return?”

“Yes—no, sir, I will not comment on that! In fact, I will not speak to you any longer! Good day.”

“No, ma’am, I will hang up first, and Mr. Ass will be very angry that he’s missed an important, once-in-a-lifetime call!” Micky roared before she could hang up. “Goodb—“

“Wait! I’m sorry, I’m very sorry. Please, sir. I don’t agree with what he’s doing either, but he pays well and I’m bound by the contract—” Very promptly she broke down crying. “He’s acquired the manuscript for my own story, and he says he’s only going to publish it if I do what he says.”

“Hang on a second.” Micky covered up the receiver and turned around to the three faces surrounding him. “Did you hear that? We should help her too.”

“Right,” Davy pursed his lips. “Maybe you can trick Class into publishing it for her too. Put in a good word with him.”

“But she shouldn’t keep working for him. It’s dirty work, and she’s not happy with herself too,” Mike weighed in. He was angry at first, but not so much now that he knew she was an aspiring author herself. He understood the injustice of having your rightful work stolen. 

“She should quit there and help some people, so the good energy will return her the favor,” Peter mused. “That would probably change all her luck.”

“Good idea, guys.” Micky cleared his throat and turned back to the phone, once again transforming into the Unknown Very Important Figure in Literary and Publishing. He repeated to her the advice and added, “Good luck.” In a few moments, he was put through to Mr, Bernie Class, the Director and Editor-in-Chief of High Class Publishing House. 

“Hello, Mr. Ass. Well, Class, Ass, I don’t see the difference. You don’t know who I am? I’m M.D., legendary writer, wordsmith extraordinaire, hailed as the Tolstoy and Dickens of Southern California by the prestigious Bench Press! In my time, my book was on every shelf of every home! A must-read for people of all ages and races!”

“He was also the co-author of The Yellow Pages,” said Peter, “and the Symposium.” 

“Oh, good, good, such an honor for me, Mr. M.D.!” Bernie Class’ tone changed in less than a second. “To what do I owe the honor of your conversation today?” 

“I will be very clear and concise because I am a busy man and I have no time,” Micky cued Davy and Peter, who scrambled to resume the typewriter clacking and office chattering at full volume. “Now, I know about that dirty competition of yours. A protege of mine, Michael Nesmith, happened to have entered, and it came to me that he has yet to receive the recognition and compensation he deserves for his work.” 

Bernie Class swallowed audibly. “And what would you like to be done about the situation?”

Mike tugged on Micky’s shirt and covered up the receiver. “Hey, I don’t think I want my poem to be put out there anymore. I don’t want it to be associated with his business, and it could use a lot of editing on, anyway. I’d rather have the poem and the twenty-five dollars I sent him back.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want, Mike.” Micky returned to Bernie Class. “You will return his manuscript and thirty dollars, to this address.” He read aloud the address of their school. “No more sneak-publishing people’s work or scamming children, or I will put you in my bad books! Yes, I’m writing a new book, an exposé of the Hollywood publishing scene: the ghostwriters, the fat publishers, the spelling and grammar mistakes.”

“Yes, M.D.”

Micky hung up and made a face. “Ugh, I feel like I just smoked a lot of cigarettes. Also, my mom’s not gonna be happy about the phone bill this month.” He was then tackled into a hug, first by Mike, then Davy and Peter, celebrating him like the hero he was.

“But Mike,” asked Peter, “what are you going to do with the poem? Please don’t discard it. Don’t let them get to you. I honestly really like it.”

“Don’t worry, Pete. Once I get my guitar back, I’ll work on turning it into a song. That’s what the guy at the magazine advised me to do when I called him earlier.” 

“If I were you, I wouldn’t trust a single word from that magazine again,” warned Davy, but Peter gave him a disapproving look. “Don’t discourage Mike’s dreams. Imagine, the song could probably be performed by a famous band and even featured in a television show!”

  


The following week there was an announcement in 12!Magazine that the High Class Publishing Poetry Contest had been cancelled. What was of even more interest was the envelope that came with the magazine, addressed to the M.D. Office ℅ Michael Nesmith. Inside was thirty dollars in cash, a legal document of sorts and a letter that read: 

 _“To whom it may concern,_  

 _Unsurprisingly, following M.D.'s call, Mr. Bernie Class still had the ill intention to keep taking advantage of works by young authors through the 12!Magazine contest. However, once I had resigned from his office and was free from his biddings, I’ve seen to it that he stopped abusing authors’ rights, including mine, by threatening him with an exposé I just started working on at Copy Magazine, where I’ve been hired recently as junior writer. They have also agreed to publish my original story in weekly installments. Thank you, M.D., for the life-changing advice._  

 _Please find attached a piece of paper that recognizes Mr. Nesmith’s rights to the poem_ Gonna Buy Me A Dog _, along with thirty dollars in compensation for his troubles. I hope he keeps working with words—he’s got talent and a very promising future ahead of him._

_Regards.”_

When they finished reading the letter and was in the midst of celebrating this not-so-small victory, Mike noticed Jake the magazine delivery guy was still hovering at the doorway with a curious expression on his face. “Hey Mike, what’s that?”

“Oh, it’s, uh, some money that they returned to me because I decided to withdraw from this contest. What’s up, buddy?”

“How did you get your money back? I also submitted my poem but I didn’t get any money back.” Jake burst into tears. “I even had to sell my bike…”

“Oh boy. I think we can help you, don’t worry,” Mike pat him on the shoulder consolingly, then turned to his friends. “Hey, Micky? I think we’ll have to make another call.” 

“Fine," Micky groaned. "But we’re not gonna use my phone this time."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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